By: Faith Chung
B-1381. I am no longer Jacob Pensendorfer, but prisoner B-1381 in the Eastern State Penitentiary. Everyday for 23 hours I sit in a tiny, dimly lit cell in pure silence except for the occasional shuffle.
As I close my eyes, all I can see is the beautiful face of Gloria Bennett, her melodic laugh chiming in my ears. “Jacob,” she laughed, dancing in a white dress. “Jacob!” Suddenly, she changes, dressed in rumpled, ripped clothes, bruises staining her pale limbs, hot blood dripping down her face. “Jacob,” she sobs, collapsing onto the floor exactly like she did 5 years ago.
“What happened?” I feel the question spill out of my mouth even though I already know the answer.
“Someone mu-mugged me,” she cries into my arms. “He, he hurt me.”
The vision changes and my hands that were comforting Gloria are now wrapped against the neck of the bastard that touched her. My shaking hands are curling around tighter and tighter, trying to squeeze the disgusting life out of him.
“Die!” I roar, angry tears spilling down my face. “How dare you mar her with your filthy hands!” Even when his body goes slack, I refuse to remove my murderous hands.
An hour later, the police find me screaming and crying, my hands wrapped around the neck of a deadman.
To this day, I have no regrets. Only bitter satisfaction.